Teardrops
by Mrs. Morzansson
Summary: Maybe it’s not crying for me. Maybe it’s crying for the ones whom will suffer most today- I suspect I won’t feel much pain. I’ve always been told it’s quick. A short drop and rapid numbing. It won’t hurt. Not much. T to be safe


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Eragon

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**Teardrops**

I stare blankly down at my feet. Anything is better than gazing at the world through the leather loop before my eyes.

The black of my boots seem to melt in to the brown of the wooden frame I stand upon like candle wax. I shift my feet and strain my ears, listening for the quiet creak of the splintery, rough terrain below me. The planks crawl with insects so tiny only a mortal acutely observing would notice; the large, metal gray lever protruding from the wooden arch to my left will seal my fate.

It's awfully cloudy today- mood setting. Thunder rumbles deep within the sky. I feel teardrops falling on my face.

I briefly wonder why the sky is crying.

Maybe it's not crying for me. Maybe it's crying for the ones whom will suffer most today- I suspect I won't feel much pain. I've always been told it's quick. A short drop and rapid numbing. It won't hurt. Not much. I twiddle my thumbs and cross my feet- _very_ intimidating. I silently ponder what the irritable buzzing noise is that comes somewhere from my left.

I eventually realize that it's a stubby man reciting words from a scroll. Still unable to collect my track of thought long enough to follow what he's saying, I begin to notice the way his mouth moves. It's like a twitching in the far right corner of his lips, and it's bugging the hell out of me. A fly buzzes around his chin. I imagine the little creature crawling into the gaping whole on the stubby man's face while it continued to twitch and the stubby person coughing up bug.

Growing bored with the man, I scan the crowd through the leather loop. My brother, my old friends, farmers, meat packers, every level of social hierarchy are in my presence. Just to see me.

But they only see half of me.

The other half of me died long ago in one of the many battles I've fought. Now I'm just left with the remainder half of my soul. The soulless half, I like to call it. The empty, emotionless half that pales in comparison to the deceased half.

No, not deceased. Murdered.

A small, sadistic smile plays upon my lips for a quick moment; I can't tell you why. Smiles are rare. I can see a few members of the crowd give me questioning looks at the gesture. Others just deepen their scowls, and you're one of them.

The teardrops thicken. The sky is no longer crying; it's sobbing. I still don't know why. I'm no one to cry for!

Hopeless,

Lost,

Confused,

Torn up,

Beaten.

Still makes no sense the world would shed even a single tear for me. Unless, of course, it was just for show. Whatever it may be- I continue to be unworthy of someone else's tears.

I'm vaguely aware of the stubby, now soaked man rolling up the streaming scroll. "The parchment's ruined," I mutter to no one in particular.

You trudge up the wooden, creaky, unstable stairs and stand beside me. Gently, you wrap the leather around my neck. I'm grateful that you do this with careful hands. Whether you realize it or not, I consider it one of the minuscule acts of kindness I have received. But, it means so much to me. I turn to you briefly, but I do not smile. My eyes stay cold and silent and depressed.

The wet leather sends shivers down my surprisingly frail spine- not that many would know it's frail, for I do an excellent job at hiding weakness. The rope chafes my pale neck; I feel a warm trickle running down my chest along with the teardrops.

Now, all I have to do is wait.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see you meander towards the gray lever, determination etched on your face.

I know it will happen soon.

Your knuckles turn white with the pressure you are exerting, and I see the lever switch positions.

My boots slip on the splintery wood, but it is not as I expected. Numbing, that's for sure. But painful, very painful. And I desperately try to gasp for air, but it was cut off by _your_ hand. The leather chokes my neck, and the next thing I know, I am spiraling away.

Drifting towards the teardrops.

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**A/N:** Review, please! I'd love to get feedback. :P Especially constructive criticism.


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